


Amusement

by MaliceManaged



Series: Home Is Where You Are [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Author Is Sleep Deprived, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Femdom, Fluff, Light Angst, Loki (Marvel) Feels, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Semi-Public Sex, Sub Loki (Marvel), author has no idea what she's doing, because I just can't help myself, naturally
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 10:51:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15727899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaliceManaged/pseuds/MaliceManaged
Summary: He loves to hear her laugh. It is such a rare treat.





	Amusement

**Author's Note:**

> This was... not what I was going to write (that's like my theme song at this point), but here we are. I have no idea why it's in present tense, either. It just happened. I'm not sure how I feel about that. A lot more plot in this one; guess I can only write almost plotless porn once in a blue moon? *shrugs*
> 
> Regarding timeline and canon: This series is not in any way Infinity War compliant (fuck that noise) and is set an inderterminate amount of time after Ragnarok, with some changes to the events leading up. I might in later installments specify just what I'm salvaging from that disaster, but relevant to this one is only that Loki didn't join up with the others after Asgard blew up and everybody thinks he died there.
> 
> Also, I got an ask on my tumblr about Alma's height and it made me realise I never really gave any indication about it; so for future reference, Alma is 6'1" (or 185.42 cm, according to google). She's a tol lady. The thirst is real and I have no shame. XD

    He loves to hear her laugh. It is such a rare treat. She allows smiles, chuckles, a hum of amusement with regularity, of course. But a full laugh, an expression of joy so completely unrestrained, uncontrolled, is a sight not often seen; those moments when he draws such a thing out of her are some of his proudest without a doubt.

 

    He feels the bed shift as she turns to face him, a caress as gentle fingers brush his hair behind one ear, and he leans into the touch contentedly.

 

    “What are you thinking of, dear one?” She asks, voice barely above a murmur.

 

    It is not a command. They rarely are that time of day, with the sun high in the sky making her lethargic even in the near-complete darkness of their bedroom. She is only awake because he is, he knows, and feels slightly guilty his restlessness pulled her from the little sleep she does get. He turns his face to hers and smiles slightly, teasingly, causing her to raise an eyebrow before returning the gesture with a faint smirk. She won’t ask again, but she will get the answer from him, one way or another, eventually.

 

    She always does.

 

    He turns onto his side and kisses her simply because he can, lips lightly brushing hers before pressing more solidly, then nudges her to lie on her back and moves until his head is resting on her chest, ear pressed over her barely-there heartbeat. She runs her fingers through his hair slowly, nails slightly scratching his scalp, the way she knows will soothe him enough to fall back asleep, until he does.

 

****

 

    The bed is empty when he wakes in the evening and he turns onto his back and stretches, letting out a satisfied groan as his back pops. It takes him a while before he’s awake enough to roll out of bed, but he manages, heading into the bathroom to relieve himself before stepping into the shower. He doesn’t really mean to, but for a long while he simply stands under the spray, eyes closed, just letting the water run over him. He realises what he’s doing with a slight jolt and shakes his head, as though that would shake the thoughts away, then briskly cleans himself and steps out, returning to the bedroom and throwing on the first shirt and pair of pants he finds before heading for the kitchen.

 

    He feels tired. Not so much physically, despite his waking that afternoon; just... tired. Might have something to do with his dreams, he figures; old memories that still sting despite how much he tells himself he doesn’t care anymore ( _Always so perceptive of everyone but yourself,_ his mind unhelpfully provides before he can stop it), old fears, future (im)possibilities. The works. It always seems to hit him out of nowhere, just when he thinks it’s all behind him.

 

    She’s sitting on the counter when he walks into the kitchen, wearing nothing but a deep grey satin robe that clings to her frame in entirely too distracting ways, a glass of her breakfast in hand. Its scent permeates the air as he approaches her and he tries not to grimace; he can’t quite help it though, it is simply instinctual. She huffs amusedly and brings the glass to her lips, draining the remaining liquid with relish and savouring it in her mouth like fine wine before swallowing, a slight pleased moan escaping her. He closes the remaining distance to her and kisses the corner of her mouth to avoid the small crimson drop smeared on the other corner of her bottom lip, earning a smirk he rolls his eyes at.

 

    “Still, pet?” she teases.

 

    “I’m afraid that is a taste I may never acquire, mistress,” he deadpans and she chuckles.

 

    “Pity,” she mock pouts. “Then again; more for me.”

 

    He breathes a laugh then moves to the fridge, scanning the contents for... something. After a moment he frowns. “I have no idea what I want.”

 

    She chuckles again and hops down from the counter, nudging him out of the way with her hip and peering into the fridge thoughtfully before taking out eggs, red and green peppers, pancetta, mushrooms and some leftover diced onion, laying it all out on the counter and turning to him. “You want an omelette. Problem solved.”

 

    “I suppose it is,” he replies with a tinge of amusement. He didn’t quite intend for that result, at least not consciously, he was simply thinking out loud, but he certainly isn’t about to complain.

 

    She watches him work, leaning against the counter out of his way, observing him closely. He can of course feel her eyes on him, it would be impossible not to with the sheer intensity of her gaze, but as she says nothing, he simply continues on with his task. It may not even mean anything; she often likes to watch him for the sake of it. Like observing art in motion, she says, and he never quite knows what to do with the feeling that gives him.

 

    When he finishes eating and the dishes are clean, she walks up behind him, grabs a fistful of his hair and pulls back sharply, earning a sound somewhere between a surprised cry and a moan. She latches her lips onto his neck, teeth grazing over his jugular as she passes over it, eliciting an involuntary shiver from him; he knows he’s in no real danger, especially given that she has already fed, but the _possibility..._ He shivers again for entirely different reasons, pulse racing, and feels her smile against his skin. He wants so desperately to turn, to kiss her, _touch_ her, but she hasn’t let go of his hair and he knows better.

 

    She tugs his head back further and turns his face to hers, fusing their lips together in a kiss that leaves no doubt as to who is in control there, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. She pulls away sooner than he likes but he refrains from trying to pursue her, not that he stands a chance against her grip, which he learned the hard way some time ago while feeling rebellious. Instead he waits for whatever comes next, and is confused - and perhaps a little disappointed - when her hand slips away and she steps back.

 

    “Come,” she says, a command, and turns to walk out of the room.

 

    He follows her back to their bedroom, standing in the middle of the room wondering what she is up to while she goes into the walk-in closet, coming back out with one of his suits and black button down shirts over one arm and a midnight blue evening gown over the other.

 

    “I wasn’t aware we had plans?” he inquires as she hands him his clothes, wondering if something slipped his mind.

 

    “We do now,” she replies simply, “I’ve decided it’s been too long since we’ve had a night out.”

 

    He hums as he begins removing the clothes he’s wearing. “May I ask where we’re going?”

 

    A half smile as she slips out of her robe. “You may ask, pet, but I’m not going to tell you.”

 

    He sighs, all for show rather than any real annoyance, and they proceed to dress themselves. He was not overly fond of surprises when they met, too many unpleasant ones mostly at his expense in a row, but he has learned to like them again; hers, more often than not, are pleasant at the very least. Walking up to her, he pulls up the zipper of her dress, taking the liberty of running his fingers over her spine as he does so, and she allows it with a smile he can’t see but knows is there. She retrieves a tie for him as they go to get their shoes - the black one, of course; she does love him in black - and proceeds to tie it on him, teasing his lips with her own but never _quite_ using enough pressure to be considered a kiss.

 

****

 

    She risks much, bringing them to that particular gala, but though they are seen by many they are recognised by none; she has mesmerised them all, he knows even before they end up making small talk with Stark. It never ceases to amaze him just how easily she twists minds to see what she wants and hide what she doesn’t. The advantage of age and practise, she tells him every time he brings it up. They run into Thor and he immediately tenses, muscles coiled ready - to flee or attack, he doesn’t truly know. But Thor’s eye passes over him entirely, lingering for a moment on her as everyone tends to before moving on, and he relaxes significantly, if not completely.

 

    “You are safe with me, pet,” she murmurs for his ears only as she brushes her lips over his cheek.

 

    “I know, mistress; it’s just...” He doesn’t want to say it. Feels weak to even think it. But she arches an eyebrow, unmoving, and he sighs and forces the words out. “It’s too much.”

 

    “You can’t avoid it forever, my love.”

 

    “I know. But perhaps just a little longer?”

 

    She smiles warmly. “Very well, pet, but this is not a permanent arrangement.”

 

    He nods and she laces their fingers together, pulling him along further into the collection of rooms set aside for the event, leading them to a dancefloor. He loves dancing with her, it’s the only time she allows herself to be led; the shift in control is an illusion, of course, but it makes it no less enjoyable. They are the only ones truly dancing; every other couple there is merely swaying to the music, but centuries of ballroom dancing are hard to put aside and he wouldn’t dare to try and take them from her.

 

    She positively _embodies_ grace, he marvels as they glide over the floor, people around them parting as they pass unconsciously or otherwise, and wonders not for the first time what Frigga would have thought of her, or even Odin. Oh, yes; he would have loved to see his so-called father twist himself up in knots trying to find fault with her as with most every other person he has ever associated with. She smiles, as if reading his thoughts, and pulls them closer together. Feeling suddenly playful, he lets the hand on her lower back slide farther down than propriety allows, and she laughs lightly and leans in to nip his bottom lip reprovingly.

 

    “Behave, pet,” she warns, “I am not above stripping you bare and taking you right here in the middle of all these people.”

 

    He holds her gaze for a moment, fairly sure (hoping) she is not serious, but ultimately decides not to risk it and moves his hand back up; that is not quite how he wants the realms to learn of his continued survival.

 

    She hums, a knowing smile curving her lips. “I thought as much.”

 

    “Would you really?” he can’t help but to ask, damn his incessant curiosity.

 

    “Would you like to find out?” she asks somewhat teasingly, but just barely enough as to make him wonder if she is at all.

 

    “I would not,” he replies, a tad bit more vehemently than he intended. Damn his incessant curiosity!

 

    She throws her head back and laughs, her grip on his hand and shoulder tightening just the slightest bit to keep her balance unaffected as they move, and the warmth the sound fills him with is almost like a drug and he can’t help himself as he twirls her, throwing her out to arm’s length before pulling her back and into a kiss almost demanding in its intensity.

 

    _Gods,_ but how he loves this woman. It could consume him whole. He would let it.

 

    Her hand slides off his shoulder as they part and she pulls him through the crowd, leaving the dancefloor, the room, the inside of the building altogether and out onto the gardens, leading them to a cluster of trees close to the tall stone fence surrounding the place. There, she all but shoves him up against a tree and claims his lips in a maddeningly thorough kiss, not letting up until the lack of oxygen makes him slightly lightheaded. When she does pull away, she grasps his tie and tugs down in a silent command he immediately follows, dropping to his knees without hesitation.

 

    It’s different with her. It doesn’t feel wrong, humiliating, _painful_ as it would with anyone else. He kneels with the security that if he didn’t really want to, she wouldn’t force him to.

 

    “Since you seem quite eager to take liberties; why don’t you put that lovely mouth of yours to good use?” she says, pulling up her skirt with tantalising slowness, drawing out the anticipation.

 

    She slings a leg over his shoulder and pulls him close to her exposed and waiting folds, and he wastes no time in diving in; tongue circling her clit before closing his lips over it and sucking, earning an appreciative hum. His hands itch to touch her, but she hasn’t given permission yet. He hasn’t earned it yet. He clasps them behind his back to avoid temptation and resolves to remedy that as his tongue continues to work the little bundle of nerves until she sighs with pleasure, a hand making its way to his hair and gripping the locks tightly, only _just_ skirting the line of pain. A slight tug grants him what he craves and he brings his hands up to her, one coming to rest on her hip and the other parting her folds to give his mouth better access.

 

     He risks a glance up to find hooded red eyes meeting his gaze as she leans forward slightly to brace her free hand against the tree, her slightly heaving chest the only other indication of being affected by his ministrations, as she hasn’t let out anything louder than sighs. She twists her fingers in his hair to direct him where she wants him and for a moment he considers disobeying just to see what she would do, but the thought fleets away as a curl of his tongue draws out the tiniest, barely audible moan from her; instead he slips a finger inside her and curls it upwards, causing her to close her eyes and drawing out a slightly louder moan. He doesn’t do much more than that, though, focusing his efforts on his tongue and lips; if she wants his hands, she will ask, and she has not.

 

    She pushes against his face, her grip on his hair tightening a bit painfully, and he hears a slight crackle as the nails of her other hand scratch against the bark of the tree. A soft growl passes her lips and she pushes against him more insistently, and he glances up again, humming a question, asking for permission that she grants with a nod. He pushes a second finger inside her, massaging her slick walls in every way he knows she likes, and is rewarded by a louder moan and a louder crack as her nails dig into the tree.

 

    With a deep growl rumbling through her, she finally comes undone, and he switches his fingers and mouth, lapping up her release eagerly as his fingers continue massaging her clit to prolong her orgasm. She pushes him away when she’s had enough, grabbing him by the throat and hauling him to his feet to fuse their lips together forcefully, pinning him between her body and the tree behind him and stealing what little breath he has managed to reclaim.

 

    “Such a talented pet I have found,” she praises, earning a mostly involuntary moan from him as his need for her mounts. She releases her grip on the tree, scattering bits of bark on the grass, and rubs his very obvious erection over his pants, causing his breath to hitch. “Do you believe you have earned a reward, princeling?”

 

    It feels like a trick question and he hesitates for a moment before deciding he doesn’t much care if it is. “Yes, my queen.”

 

    She arches an eyebrow at the title but says nothing as she undoes his pants and slips her hand inside to grip him firmly. It takes all his self-control not to come on the spot, so wound up is he, but he manages, if only because the punishment for such a blunder is not something he wishes to court tonight. She keeps her movements slow to begin with, fingers tracing over every inch of him from base to tip and back, and he couldn’t look away from her eyes if he wanted to. She tightens her grip, only slightly, and picks up the pace, and his knees threaten to buckle and his hands involuntarily come up to grasp her shoulders, but she smirks and he knows it’s allowed.

 

    “Mistress...” he manages shakily, pleadingly.

 

    “Not yet, pet.”

 

    “I c-can’t...”

 

    “Yes, you can. And you will.”

 

    He lets out a strangled moan that’s almost a whimper and screws his eyes shut, focusing on holding back as best he can. Her strokes quicken again and she leans in close, tracing her tongue up the side of his neck, feeling his rapid pulse, and letting out a pleased hum at the salty taste of the clean sweat gathering there. His control almost falters and he lets out a sharp hiss, and suddenly her hand is gone and this time he _does_ whimper as his eyes shoot open again and find hers.

 

    She chuckles. “I thought you wanted your reward. Or was I wrong?”

 

    Even with his frustration he can’t help the breathless laugh that passes his lips. Of _course_ she’s teasing him; the woman does love to play. “My queen; you will be the death of me.”

 

    “Only if you’re good, pet,” she replies with a wink that sends shivers through his spine.

 

    He can’t tell if it’s a threat or a promise, and the possibility of either feels strangely appealing.

 

    There’s probably something very wrong with him, he idly muses.

 

    She grabs his waist and pulls him forward enough to switch their places and he takes that as his cue to lift her skirt and pin her against the tree. She wraps a leg around his hip and grinds against him slightly, draping her arms over his shoulders and leaning forward to kiss him as he shifts his pants down enough to free his cock, wasting no time in entering her and swallowing her resulting moan.

 

    He keeps his thrusts slow, aware that any rush will have him finishing before she’s allowed him to, and she laughs knowingly and digs her fingers into his hair, pulling his head towards hers to rest their foreheads together. Once he’s sure he can keep himself together, he moves faster, turning to bury his face in her neck and throwing out a silencing spell around them so he can stop containing his moans and groans. He’s not sure when his hands travelled down to cup her ass and pull her closer to him, but they did and he thrusts harder in response to the hand fisting his hair unconsciously tight enough to hurt.

 

    He lifts his head to meet her glazed over gaze again and barely manages to grind out the request, “Mistress, please...”

 

    She grins wickedly and he almost groans, sure he’s about to be denied again. Instead she tightens her leg around him and commands, _“Come.”_

 

    And so he does with a strangled cry and a mostly incoherent curse in what she is fairly certain is asgardian, filling her and nearly collapsing to his knees afterwards, if not for her grip holding him up. Slowly, she loosens her hold, giving him time to recover enough to stay upright more or less on his own, and he pulls out of her almost reluctantly. His legs give out a bit when she lets him go and she holds onto him again, lowering them both to the grass with a soft laugh he echoes.

 

    “How very dignified,” he jokes.

 

    “But most flattering to a lady’s ego,” she fires back, causing them to laugh again.

 

    He fixes his clothes then nestles into her waiting arms, wrapping his arms around her waist and practically purring with contentment when she begins to run her fingers through his hair the way he likes. They spend a long time there, sitting on the ground in silence, simply basking in each other’s presence, long enough for the sounds of the gala inside to recede as the party winds down to its end, and he is glad for it.

 

    “Alma?” he says softly, almost timidly, if he were to analyse it.

 

    “Yes, Loki?” she asks back just as softly, sensing, correctly, his need for gentleness.

 

    “I love you.” They are not words he likes to say; he remembers too well the last time he did and they have tasted sour ever since. But he needs to say them now. She deserves to hear them, even if she already knows. “I love you.”

 

    She turns her head enough to kiss the top of his. “And I you, dear one.”

 

    The silence stretches again for a long while more until he pulls away from her enough to sit up and look her in the eye, and she looks back questioningly. “Would you really have taken me in front of all those people?”

 

    She arches an eyebrow then laughter bubbles up from deep in her belly and bursts from her lips, making her sag against the tree behind her as it plays out, and the question ceases to really matter in the face of it.

 

    He loves to hear her laugh.

**Author's Note:**

> Comment, pretty please? I really need to know what people think about this series in particular; I'm still nervous as hel about sharing it, it is _sooo_ out of my comfort zone.


End file.
